


Seeing Stars

by thewaythatwerust



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve, Fade to Black, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Modern Beefy Bucky/Smol Steeb, Space Puns, Stucky - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, Wrapped around Steve's Finger Bucky, body painting, inappropriate use of planet names, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: Bucky twists his neck, eyes finding the clock on the wall, and groans. He’s been trapped on this chair being tortured by the one-sided contact for over an hour now. Long drags and quick flicks, cold strokes over heated skin, and he’s about to lose his fucking mind.“Stop moving,” Steve chides from his perch on Bucky’s thighs. There’s a mock note of impatience, but under that, he sounds completely unaffected, the little shit, and it’s all Bucky can do not to grab the throw pillow beside him and whack it into Steve’s smug face. Hard.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 26
Kudos: 125





	Seeing Stars

**Author's Note:**

> i. For a tumblr ask prompt meme ~thing~, where the very clever & talented [Kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60) said "I wish you would write a fic where Steve's learning how to use body paint (he's very proficient at canvas art, but wants to branch out) and Bucky is the model...." and this just kind of... happened.
> 
> ii. Apparently you can make your own paints with water, flour, salt, and food colouring, and of course, Steve would do that. They also have the advantage of being edible, so maybe they experimented with that, too? I'll leave _that_ to your imagination, though.

_“Steve,”_ Bucky grinds out between clenched teeth, head dropping back against the couch as the delicate touches sweeping across his belly come again. Liquid slips over his skin, pooling in his belly button and overflowing the shallow well, sliding down further before stalling, its path no doubt thwarted by the trail of dark hair that, _oh, shit,_ Steve’s now running the blunt tips of his nails through. _Fuck_.

Bucky twists his neck, eyes finding the clock on the wall, and groans. He’s been trapped on this chair being tortured by the one-sided contact for over an hour now. Long drags and quick flicks, cold strokes over heated skin, and he’s about to lose his fucking mind.

The feather-light touches come again, dipping down, down, only stopping when they meet the elastic barrier of his boxer briefs—hiding the only skin off-limits… though not by Bucky’s choice.

“Stop moving,” Steve chides from his perch on Bucky’s thighs. There’s a mock note of impatience, but under that, he sounds completely unaffected, _the little shit,_ and it’s all Bucky can do not to grab the throw pillow beside him and whack it into Steve’s smug face. _Hard._

Bucky knows Steve isn’t oblivious to his discomfort, knows he can literally _feel_ it, and is reveling in it… _on_ it. Steve climbing into Bucky’s lap had triggered his Pavlovian response, and he’d been fully hard at the five-minute mark, leaking steadily at fifteen, and now, he’s just about ready to grab Steve’s slim hips, hold them down and grind up against them and _take_ his pleasure. After all, Steve’s had over an hour of his, and turn about is fair play.

“How much longer?” Bucky grumbles as he straightens, watching Steve’s hand move across his body in confident sweeps, his face pinched in concentration.

“Five more minutes,” Steve hums.

Bucky can’t hold back the exasperated groan. “You said that five minutes ago, and ten, and—”

Steve looks up at that, blinking like he’s coming back into himself from somewhere far away. Bucky hates to be the one to drag him from that world he goes to when creating, but if left to his own devices, Steve will have him sitting on this damn couch for the next five hours and he just _can’t._

“Please, Buck? Just five more minutes, I swear.”

Wide eyes lock on Bucky’s imploringly, and defeat rushes from his body in a sigh. Steve tips forward, knowing he’s won—again, always—and presses a chaste kiss to Bucky’s lips as a consolation prize. Bucky chases it but Steve pulls away, having the audacity to actually fucking giggle, and Bucky drops his chin to his chest, resigned to his fate.

It’s his own damned fault he’s in this situation. He’d wandered into the kitchen two hours ago to find the benches dusted with almost as much flour as Steve, and vibrant pots of thick liquid in every shade of the rainbow peppered across them. Steve having _Artsy Experiment Time_ is not a novel occurrence, and if Bucky had just brushed some of the flour from his boyfriend’s hair and given him a sleepy good morning peck on the cheek, and then headed for the shower, he wouldn’t be in this position now. But, no, he’d yawned and stretched, raked his hand through Steve’s hair as he’d opened his mouth and asked—

“What are you doing?’

Steve had smiled sweetly, sidled up to him, wrapped slender arms around his neck, and murmured, “How much do you love me?”

Bucky hisses as the paintbrush flicks over his nipple, and he looks down to find another vibrant yellow streak cutting through the dark purple hues Steve had coated his skin with earlier.

A lot is the answer. _A whole fucking lot._ He loves Steve with everything he has, everything he _is_ and would do anything for him… and the little punk knows it.

Steve shifts in Bucky’s lap—that perfect, pert ass rolling more than strictly necessary for Steve to reach down and rinse his brush in the large cup of water on the coffee table. Bucky throbs under the attention, unable to stop his hips twitching up, looking for more delicious friction. He trails his hands down Steve’s sides, landing on his hips before pulling them down, seating that amazing ass more flush against his aching cock. He doesn’t miss Steve’s small gasp as he straightens, or the breathless hitch in his voice after. “Almost done.”  
  
The brush is coated with white paint now—well, Steve’s homemade concoction at least—and he runs his thumb through the bristles, sending tiny drops of liquid splattering across Bucky’s chest, neck and face.

Bucky turns away at the first drops hitting his lips. “Really, Rogers?”

“Can’t have a galaxy without stars, Barnes,” Steve retorts, voice dancing with mirth.

“How about you lose the brush and clothes, and I’ll show you some _real_ stars.”

The hand slapping Bucky’s shoulder is playful, but Steve squirms even as he shakes his head. “Stop trying to distract me; I need to practice. The curves of a human body are so different to a flat canvas. I’m not even sure I can really…” Steve sighs. He tilts his head to the side, a frustrated look that Bucky knows well twisting his features. It’s the look that comes before paper is crumbled and tossed across the room.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand and lifts it to his lips—ignoring the streaks of color decorating his skin—and kisses each knuckle.

“Hey, Stevie, it’s okay. This is the first time you’re trying this; you can’t expect to be an expert at it straight away.” At Steve’s pretty pout, Bucky chuckles. “Okay, you _shouldn’t_ expect to be an expert right away. How about we take a little break—” Bucky rocks his hips up, smiling at Steve’s soft moan “—maybe relieve a little frustration? Then you can have your way with my body while I take a nap.”

“Why, Buck, I didn’t know you were into _that_ ,” Steve says, feigning shock, but he’s smiling now, the earlier frustration gone.

“Didn’t mean it like that, but—” Bucky shrugs “—blanket permission still holds. Do what you want, but wake me up when you get to the good part.”

Steve twirls the brush between his fingers, trying hard to look like he’s considering the proposition, but Bucky knows his love well, knows all of his faces, knows those dark eyes and the soft hum—bordering on a damned purr—swelling in his throat means Steve isn’t at all as unaffected as he’s trying to appear. No, Steve’s two minutes from rutting up against him and begging for it. It would almost be worth it to wait, see those pretty pink lips dripping with pleas. But Bucky’s too far gone already.

He fights the rush of loss that surges through him as Steve climbs from his lap, curling his fingers to his palm to keep from reaching out and hauling him back.

Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s wrist, urging him up off the couch and toward the hallway. He pauses as they pass the mirror adorning the living room wall. “Do you like it?”

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat as he takes in his reflection—at the large zipper Steve had painted running from collar-bones to briefs, unzipping into a large ‘V,’ opening to reveal a beautiful space scene: bright pinks and dark purples bleeding through the black, swirling galaxies with hundreds of tiny white stars. _It’s beautiful._

“It’s amazing, Stevie,” Bucky breathes, staring at the glass, ignoring the efforts to tug him to the bedroom.

Tables turned, Steve wraps his other hand around Bucky’s wrist impatiently and yanks. “C’mon, Buck. I _will_ leave you here and start witho— _oof_ —” Finally, Bucky allows himself to be urged sideways and collides bodily against Steve. He tucks his hands under flailing arms and hoists Steve up, who wraps legs and arms around his waist and neck, locking them together. “I believe you said something about showing me stars?” Steve waggles his eyebrows suggestively as Bucky carries him to the bedroom.

“Sure did. Supernovas, even. Gonna take you out of this world, baby,” Bucky grins at Steve’s groan. His fingers squeezing the flesh of Steve’s ass are rewarded with desperate little whimpers. “First stop is Uranu—”

“Bucky, oh my god,” Steve clamps a hand over Bucky’s mouth, giggling. “You were not going to say that.”

Grin edging wider behind Steve’s palm, Bucky licks a broad stripe across it, tasting flour and salt, chuckling when the hand is snatched away. “Hey, you’re the one who started this whole space theme, I’m just following your lead.” He deposits Steve on the bed, watching as he scrambles to his knees immediately.

“Not closely enough,” Steve murmurs huskily, grabbing Bucky’s arms and tugging him down. Bucky drops onto the mattress, using his forearms to keep him from collapsing entirely onto Steve. Breathless laughter fills the small room as they grapple, a rolling tangle of limbs until Bucky is naked and Steve is straddling him, grinding down lazily. “You _really_ like the painting?”

“Yeah, I _really_ do. I love it… _almost_ as much as I love you. Although,” Bucky hums thoughtfully, tugging Steve’s shirt over his head, “I think it’s missing a little something.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Steve asks suspiciously, helping Bucky work his jeans down.

Bucky smirks. “The Milky Way?”

Steve stares at him blankly for a long moment before the apples of his cheeks ripen prettily. But the burn on his cheeks has nothing on his mouth, and when he rocks forward and finds Bucky’s, Bucky almost paints Steve’s belly white instead. Steve’s tongue, so sharp when forming words, is softer now, and hot and insistent and eager, taking Bucky apart effortlessly. And, always happy to follow Steve’s lead, Bucky uses his own to pull a symphony of moans and whimpers from Steve’s lips as they start their ascent to the stars.


End file.
